Saada, wrapped in a robe, sat in her hospital room waiting for Suha and Anwar. It was eleven o’clock and they still hadn’t come. She glanced over at the window. Maybe the heavy rain was holding them up. Her eyes fell on the bed that had been stripped of its sheets. Two weeks had seemed like two months and now she must stay at home for two more. And what about her students? The doctor had ignored her question. His only concern was her recovery.
‘Sorry we’re late, Saada. Anwar is still trying to park the car.’
Suha’s voice brought her back to reality.
‘I don’t want to add to your problems while you’re in the hospital, Saada, but there is something you have to know,’ Suha said abruptly.
‘What? Has the doctor discovered something he’s kept from me? Will I never go back to my students? Will I end up in agony like Mama?’
‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing like that. It’s just that we’re going away.’
‘Again?’
‘For the last time, God willing.’
Saada didn’t understand.
‘For the last time? Why?’
‘I’m never coming back to this country. Even Anwar is finally convinced. We’re going to Canada.’
Saada was at a loss for words. Was she going to lose her sister again? And this time forever. Would she never see her after today? What had happened? She tried to control her agitation.
‘Do doctors earn more in Canada?’
Suha’s smile was bitter. ‘He can’t practise medicine there, his medical degree is not even recognised in Canada. In any case, it’s no longer possible for him to practise here either.’
The sisters fell silent. Then Saada asked: ‘What will he do there?’
‘He’s going to look for an administrative job in a company that sells medical supplies.’
Saada was dumbfounded. Anwar’s patients were so important to him. She couldn’t believe it!
‘What about your art, Suha? People here know you and appreciate your paintings.’
‘I started here as an unknown artist, and I succeeded. I can make a fresh start there as well.’
Saada wanted to say how extremely competitive it is in the West; that it is almost impossible for Arabs to break into the art world. ‘Does an artist remain an artist if torn from her roots?’ she asked instead.
Suhai’s answer was abrupt. ‘My roots? I don’t have any roots here. Maybe you have roots, maybe, but I don’t. Even Anwar’s a stranger here now. The war stripped us of our rights. There are no laws to protect him and no government to uphold any laws. Look around you! Who’s looking out for us? Armed thugs, that’s who!’
‘So this is the reason you’re leaving?’ Saada asked sadly. ‘Then it’s true that politics corrupts everything it touches.’
‘If you mean my life,’ remarked Suha aggressively, ‘it was corrupted a long time ago and politics played no part.’
‘But politics made things worse,’ Saada said to her sister. ‘Don’t make Anwar the scapegoat.’
‘The Lebanese war made him a scapegoat. And he made me a scapegoat long before that. Besides he’s only concerned about his work and his patients.’
She choked on the last word and Saada noticed tears in her sister’s eyes.
‘He loves you, Suha.’
Suha let out a strained, sarcastic laugh. Did her sister not notice that their relationship had changed, how Anwar is no longer the person he used to be?
‘Yes, he loves you! He works day and night to provide you and Nadia with every comfort.’
‘He lives day and night to attend to his work. He has no emotion or concern left for me.’
Saada looked shocked. But Suha ignored her sister.
‘Is love having a colour television, a bigger fridge, a new car? Is love valued at tens of thousands of liras, and not one penny of affection or concern?’
Suha choked on her humiliation. Love to Saada was always weighed in terms of a person’s qualifications, position and income. What did Saada know about love? She read about it in literature, in books. Love! She only loved herself!
‘Always so idealistic! You live in the world of literature so how can you know anything about life?’ Suha said disapprovingly.
‘Have you forgotten how much in common you and Anwar have and how much love and understanding there is between you?’ Saada saw the look of hatred in Suha’s eyes.
‘If it was love, it has certainly faded.’ Suha was now unable to hold back her tears.
Anwar removed his outer layer of clothing, put on the white surgical gown and entered the operating theatre. Throwing a quick glance at the anaesthetised patient on the operating table, he washed his hands and put on the surgical gloves that Samiya was holding for him. Then he bent down so that she could tie the surgical mask around his nose and mouth. Samiya began sterilising the skin around the patient’s stomach and waist while Anwar selected a suitable scalpel. He leaned over the body stretched out in front of him, his fingers probing to determine where to make the incision. Suddenly he heard commotion outside: his hand froze as the door behind him flew open and something hard was thrust between his shoulder blades. ‘Stop what you’re doing and take the bullet out of our comrade,’ ordered a harsh voice.
Before Anwar realised what was happening, two armed men had pushed the operating table away, and dragged in a table on which lay a young man covered in blood.
‘Get a move on! Our comrade has a bullet in his chest. Take it out!’
The hard object was suddenly pressed into his back even harder. Then he heard his colleague Saad shout: ‘Are you crazy? Get out of here right now!’
‘We’re not leaving and if the doctor doesn’t perform the operation immediately we’ll kill him,’ replied an insolent voice.
Was this a nightmare or reality? Anwar found himself surrounded on all sides by fighters, their guns aimed directly at him. He didn’t dare look at their faces. Through the heavy atmosphere of terror came Samiya’s soft voice: ‘Get out. We’ll operate on him but we have to remove his clothing and sterilise the wound.’
‘We will leave as soon as the doctor starts operating.’
Anwar used the scalpel to cut away the shirt from the clumps of mud and coagulated blood. When the shirt was finally removed, blood began to gush out.
‘Stethoscope!’
Samiya quickly handed it to him and the armed men began to leave. The wounded man’s heart was still beating, but the beats were faint and irregular. ‘What if he dies under the scalpel, and what if I don’t operate on him?’ thought Anwar. But the hard object between his shoulder blades ended his speculation. Samiya began to disinfect the man’s chest while Anwar reached for some sterilised forceps. He smiled as his eyes fell on the anaesthetised patient who would regain consciousness before he had finished operating on the wounded man. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when he inserted the scalpel and forceps into the young man’s chest.
Removing the surgical gown that seemed to cling to his perspiring body, he hesitated for a moment before opening the door. The thugs would be waiting for him.
‘Well, Doctor?’
Six armed men were blocking the corridor, and behind them stood two women, one old, the other young. His heart started to pound rapidly.
‘Did you remove the bullet?’
‘Yes, thank God.’
And thank God their question hadn’t required him to lie. Now there was only one thing to do. They moved aside to let him pass: then they burst into the operating theatre. He dashed over to the stairs and ran down. Soon they would know that the bullet had damaged the heart, torn through an artery. There was nothing he or anyone else could do. He entered his office, grabbed his briefcase and rushed home, determined, as he returned the concierge’s greeting, that this would be the last time.
Translated by Stuart A. Hancox